Two Sips of Wine
by The Croc Shop
Summary: Six times Tiana and Naveen kissed, or: scenes from a marriage.


Disclaimer: I do not own nor do I claim to own any characters or concepts related to _The Princess and the Frog._ This is a nonprofit work of fanfiction.

I owe Vitani and Rawles so very many thanks for beta-reading this and for gently suggesting I do something else with the ending. You are both excellent and this story is much improved for your efforts. Thank you. Thank you.

Formatting fixed on 01/26/2010. My apologies for the mess!

* * *

**Two Sips of Wine**

* * *

_July 23, 1926_

Not two hours left till the Palace's grand debut and everything was going as it ought: the kitchen ready, yes, and the menu, too, and the waitstaff fully educated as to their duties, of course. There was nothing left to be done there and so she'd come home with Naveen to dress. Her first evening as hostess, as the proprietor and the face of her own restaurant: she wanted to knock them all off their heels.

"I will admit to some small, personal bias," said Naveen, "but I don't think that will be very difficult. Because you are so wonderful, I mean."

She couldn't just let something like that slide. They wasted several long minutes pressed up against that wall, Naveen's far too clever fingers at her waist, her hips, her thighs. She layered a series of kisses on his throat, one on top of the other, and in the hallway the clock boomed out half past four. She covered his mouth.

"We've got to hurry," she said by way of apology.

He turned his attentions to her fingers, mouthing the length of her forefinger. "I prefer a more leisurely seduction," he said to the tip, "but if you like..." and she pushed him away before her knees weakened further.

Now in the privacy of the bathroom she sorted through her jewelry box; she searched around the sink, beneath the cupboard, running her fingers through the rug; she felt in the medicine cabinet and found nothing but the expected bottles and an assortment of small tubes. She closed the cabinet door.

"Naveen!" she called. "Have you seen my earrings?"

"What?" His voice, muffled, sounded near.

"My earrings," she said, turning to the door. She started: Naveen had popped his head in. His necktie hung loose about his throat.

"I can't find them anywhere," she said.

"Which ones?" he said. "You have so many. You must be more specific if I'm to help."

"The sparkly, green dangly ones," she said, bending over her jewelry box once more. She fluttered her hand at her ear. "Just two long strips? You should know; you're the one who gave them to me."

"I remember this pair," he said, thoughtful. "I think they were-- Yes, they were on the dresser."

He held his hand out to her and there they were, shining against the smooth, brown skin of his palm.

"You see?" he said. "You shouldn't leave them there, sitting on the edge. Very irresponsible."

She snatched them up quick as a flash and set to work fitting them to her ears. In the mirror Naveen grinned at her, the unlined skin by his eyes crinkling faintly.

"Thank you," she said, "thank you, thank you, you're an angel, you're a saint, I love you."

"Please, don't stop on my account," said Naveen. "Are you finished, then? Ah, your crown."

That, at least, she hadn't misplaced.

"Perfect," he said. They smiled at each other in the mirror and Tiana felt her toes curl, just a little, and her heart start to thrumming, her skin crawling with the force of this new thing they'd made between them.

He offered her his hand again, his palm up, but empty now. "Shall we go, my princess?" he said.

"Most certainly, my prince," she said, then: "Oh, wait, your tie."

"Oh, right, that," he said. He reached for the ends, his chin ducking as he looked down.

She batted his hands aside. "Let me," she said, taking the length of ribbon between her fingers. She looked up through her lashes at him and Naveen smiled, less graceful, and she thought maybe he felt it, too, that zing in his toes, that itch in his skin.

She crossed the ends, then slipped the one beneath the other, through the loop. He hitched his chin high, drawing his throat up. Her fingers skated across his skin. He did not swallow.

"There," she said. She straightened the bow, then stepped back.

He touched his collar lightly. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," she said. She held her hand out to him. "Shall we?"

He took her hand. "We shall," he said.

*

_January 24, 1934_

She found them nestled together, Naveen sprawled out across the bed and Angelie curled upon his chest, her knees drawn up to her waist and her round bottom thrust indelicately high. The room was dark, the lamp out and the moon not yet half-full. Tiana crept on her smarting toes through the shadows.

Angelie was very much asleep, her fingers in her mouth, which was slack and perhaps a little leaky; small wet spots darkened Naveen's shirt. _He_ was very much awake, and when Tiana bent over him to brush her finger down Angelie's heavy cheek, he said in a low voice, "Gently, please. You do not want to wake her."

"I'm just saying hello to my little angel, that's all," she said. Angelie snuffled and turned her face into his chest. Her lips worked, smacking.

"Yes, she's a perfect angel, our Angelie," he said. "When she sleeps."

Tiana straightened. His aspect was worn, his eyes lidded and shining beneath his lashes, and his hand upon Angelie's back was limp, the long fingers still. His hair was a mess, not at all artful, the curls in senseless disarray. She tipped her head.

"Rough day, huh?" she said.

"It was not easy, no, I would not say that," he said. "How did I survive? An excellent question for which I have no answer."

"Poor Naveen," she murmured. She thumped his shoulder. "Scoot over, I'm coming up."

He lifted his arm high and she slipped in beside him, fitting to his side. She brought her knees up and her calves twinged; her ankles ached. His hand settled on her shoulder, and she rested her head upon his arm and her hand upon his chest, which rose and fell in a shallow, even rhythm. He stroked her shoulder.

"And how was your day?" he said. "Not so rough, I hope."

She watched small shadows fluttering across the ceiling, the moonlight washing them in silver, wearing them thin, and said, "I had to let Harry go."

She fell silent a moment. Naveen said nothing, but his fingers on her shoulder were light, the touch of his hand gentle.

She said, "He's been out every day this week, you know, and late all last month. I didn't want to do it," she said, turning to Naveen, so close in the dark, "but some of the girls, they saw him out drinking when he said he had flu. Michael saw him, too. I can't afford to keep a cook who spends his time with a bottle when he ought to be working.

"But," she said, then she said nothing else.

In the quiet, Angelie sighed.

Naveen shifted, tightening his arm about Tiana's shoulders. He leaned nearer to her; his cheek pressed against her brow. He said, "You feel guilty. Yes? You shouldn't. He has made his choice. It was a very poor choice, but then..." He shrugged. "That is what he chose."

"I suppose you're right," she said, to which he said, "But of course. Am I not always?"

"Such modesty," said Tiana. Her smile faded. She fingered his collar, the small, popped ivory button glinting beneath her thumb. How fine his tastes ran, even now.

"I could've given him another chance," she said. "The economy being what it is, and how hard it is now, finding a job... I don't know."

"Let us pretend Harry is standing there," said Naveen. "He says, 'Please, Miss Tiana, can you not find it in your heart to allow me this one last opportunity to prove myself to you?' And you say--"

"No," said Tiana. Easy as that.

Naveen smiled against her brow. "There, you see? You should not doubt yourself." His thumb traced the line of her shoulder. Beneath her hand, his chest rose and fell, and rose and fell. She closed her eyes.

"And were there any other excitements?" he whispered. "Perhaps less exciting?"

"Anamarie's about finished her training," she said. "Which is good, since with Harry gone and all, we'll be needing a new tournant. She's got a real talent with fish, too, and you can imagine how happy Celeste is about that."

"All too easily," said Naveen. "For a woman who spends so much of her time up to her elbows in fish guts, she is very cheerful."

Lightly, Tiana touched Angelie's curls, her dark hair twisted tightly against her scalp. Angelie murmured, then was quiet once more. "And you," she said. "How was your day? Angelie give you too much trouble?"

"She is so quick," he said, "and far too clever. I turn my back on her, for a minute, no more! You doubt me," he accused Tiana.

"No, no, oh, no," she said. "I believe you entirely. One minute on the dot."

He eyed her, then slowly, he continued: "I turn my back on her. The next thing I know, she is out of her chair. Out the door. Splash, in the mud. Mud in her shoes. Mud in her shirt. Mud in her hair, in her ears. In her teeth." Darkly he said, "I curse the day she learned to crawl."

"Just wait 'til she starts walking," said Tiana.

"Not a problem," he said. "I will simply tie her feet together."

Tiana laughed; she covered her mouth, and pressed her face into his side, and shook helplessly as he said, "Ha ha, yes, so funny. But I'm not joking. I have the rope in the closet," but his straight face cracked and he ducked his head.

Tiana wriggled up onto her elbow, rising from the warm half-circle of his arm. The tip of his nose was chill beneath her lips, but his mouth was warm and the lazy sweep of his tongue across her lip warming, in turn. She touched her brow to his. Her lashes sank low over her eyes. His hand slid down her arm, one long, smooth stroke that called up goose pimples in its wake.

Angelie whimpered and turned, rubbing her face into his shirt. Her fingers curled into a fist, that tightened, then slowly opened.

Tiana settled back. "We best get some rest," she said. "Got another long day just waiting for us."

Naveen smiled at her, the moon at his back, his brown eyes black. "Let me put Angelie to bed," he said, "and then, I think, if you do not mind, I will put you to bed."

She didn't mind at all.

*

_May 22, 1945_

The crowd at Union Station was bearable, so light in the early afternoon when the summer heat, thick and muggy, washed through New Orleans. Those waiting at the station were few and among them, no others awaited returning soldiers. In the Pacific war raged on and the need for able bodies continued.

What Naveen had done to earn this discharge she didn't know and he wouldn't say or couldn't, and certainly not in a letter. Something to do with that year of silence, she reckoned: no letters, no calls, then out of the blue a note saying, I'm coming home. She touched her fingers to her waist, where the note rested in a pocket. The paper crinkled when she pressed against it.

A small hand pulled at her elbow and she turned, Grace heavy on her hip. Angelie had claimed a bench as her own, her legs stretched out before her and her face turned down to her book, her bearing resolutely disinterested in anything else. It was Ghaliya who tugged on her mother's sleeve.

"What time is it?" she said, plaintive.

Tiana shifted Grace, balancing her in the crook of her arm, and pointed. "There's a clock right over there, sweetheart."

"Oh," said Ghaliya. "Thanks, Mama!" and off she went on her toes to investigate, her braids swinging behind her. Her footsteps sounded out light on the stones. Angelie turned a page in her book, the rustle faint.

Grace squirmed, straining against Tiana's arms; she reached for the ground.

"Oh, no," said Tiana, hefting her high. "No, no, little girl. You remember what happened last time I set you down?"

Grace said, "No-o," and wriggled again, her feet kicking.

"Well, I do," Tiana told her, holding her tight, "and I am not chasing you across the tracks."

Ghaliya came bounding back on her toes, shouting, "Quarter past one! It's a quarter past one! Pa-pa is la-ate."

"It's not Papa's fault the train's running a little behind," said Tiana. "I'm sure it'll be here any minute now." Ghaliya made a series of horrible, fleeting faces; she danced in place. Tiana laughed. "Just try to be patient, sweetheart. Yes, Grace, I hear you."

"Mama," Grace chanted. "Mama. Mama. Mama. Listen, Mama, listen."

"I'm listening, honey, I'm listening," said Tiana. "What is it? I'm not putting you down."

Grace considered this, her dark eyes lidding; her cheeks puffed out.

"Papa is late, Angie," Ghaliya said to Angelie, who said, affronted, "Get away, Ghaliya. It's rude to interrupt."

"Girls," Tiana called to them, "no fighting."

Grace pulled insistently at her collar, tugging her back around. "Mama," she said, "I want Louis."

Gently, Tiana disentangled Grace's fingers from her shirt. She squeezed her tiny hand; the fat fingers curled reflexively around Tiana's thumb. "Louis is at the Palace, honey. You can see him later."

"No!" said Grace. "I want to play with Louis now. Now! Louis now."

"I know you want Louis, but right now--"

"Now!" said Grace. She squirmed, kicking again. "Now, now, now. Now, I want to play with Louis no-ow. Mama, now!"

Angelie slapped the two sides of her book together; the clap startled Grace into silence. Angelie frowned, her wide mouth pinching at the corners.

"Stop it, Gracie," she said. "You shouldn't yell at Mama."

Ghaliya chimed in, sing-song: "Yeah, loudmouth Gracie!"

Grace's round face crumpled into long, anguished folds; her lips trembled, then parted. She turned wet eyes on her mother and tightened her grip on Tiana's sleeve, and whined softly.

"Ghaliya," said Tiana. "Do not call your sister names."

"But Mama!"

"No buts," she said, sharply.

Ghaliya subsided, scowling, her long nose wrinkled.

Tiana hitched Grace higher on her hip and bounced her, which comfort she accepted grudgingly. Grace turned her face into Tiana's neck, her cheeks warm and damp with tears, sticky against Tiana's skin.

"You're getting awful big, Gracie girl," Tiana murmured. "Your papa won't even know you."

"Want Louis," said Grace fitfully. Her fingers flexed.

Tiana sighed and looked out across the tracks, the silver rails shimmering in the heat, beyond the shelter of the station. Fifteen minutes late, she thought, then she set that thought aside.

She dropped a kiss on Grace's temple, where her thick, dark hair curled tight. "I know, honey. But Louis is working. And you," she said, low, "are missing your nap."

"Don't want to," Grace muttered and gently, Tiana stroked her hot cheek.

Over the usual din of the station Ghaliya's voice rose, furious and quick: "Oh, shut your big, fat mouth, Angie! I just wanted to look at the back!"

"It's not your book, Ghaliya," Angelie snapped. "You oughta keep your hands to yourself."

"Ghaliya," said Tiana, her voice like a whip cracking through the thick summer air. "Angelie. Both of you stop this right now."

"She tried to take my book!"

"I did not!" Ghaliya cried. "I didn't even touch it, you liar! All I said was, What're you reading?"

"Ghaliya," said Tiana again. "You know better than to bother Angelie when she's reading. And Angelie--"

"It's not fair! I always get in trouble and Angie--"

"--Angelie, you shouldn't snap at your sisters," she finished.

She arched an eyebrow at Ghaliya, who had the grace to look ashamed of her outburst, if not apologetic. Angelie retreated behind her book, her shoulders pulled high and her feet tucked beneath the bench.

Into Tiana's shoulder, Grace complained. Even in the shade of the shelter, the heat was oppressive, the air swollen with moisture and thick with the promise of a coming storm.

They were anxious, all of them, anxious and short-tempered because of it; she knew. Tiana had slept poorly every night for the last two weeks, thinking of this day when the train would come in and Naveen would step off it. At the restaurant, she had too much to do to waste time thinking of her husband in France, then London, then New York City, Chicago, bearing down on New Orleans. No such luxury at night, in the darkness of her room and the emptiness of her bed.

Late in the evening, long after the girls should have been in their own beds, Ghaliya had clambered into bed with her, whispering, "I can't sleep, Mama." Tiana had wrapped her arms around her shoulders and held her second daughter close, and together they had waited out the long hours of the night while Grace slept the unbothered sleep of the very young and Angelie lost herself in her books, the thin light of her lamp spilling into the hallway.

Grace whined again. Tiana rubbed her back and said, "There, there, Gracie girl. You're all right."

"What if he forgot?" said Ghaliya, suddenly.

"The train's just late," said Tiana. "He hasn't forgotten."

"Not that," said Ghaliya, witheringly. "I don't mean the train. I mean us."

"Papa won't have forgotten," said Angelie, her voice even, clear, without inflection. "Two years isn't very long."

"Two years is so long!" Ghaliya threw her hands in the air. "I'm big! Look at my hair!" She gestured violently first to herself, then to Grace. "Gracie can walk!"

Grace roused. "Want to walk," she said, with interest.

"Not now, Gracie," said Tiana. "In a little bit. Stop pulling, honey. Papa hasn't forgotten you," she said to Ghaliya, who was fiddling with her braids. "He wouldn't forget any of you. He loves you girls, all of you, so much. He's just about as likely to forget you all as I am, and believe you me," she said, dryly, "that's not likely at all."

Angelie stared into the pages of her book, her hands still on the covers.

"I guess," said Ghaliya. She looked down to her shoes, the polished toes of her Mary Janes scuffed and faintly dusty.

Tiana smoothed her hand between Ghaliya's bowed shoulders. "Don't you worry, sweetheart," she said. "Your father's going to step off that train and take one look at you and say--"

The train depot announcer's voice cut through, static dulling his baritone: "Train seven from Chicago arriving now." A shrill whistle preceded the sudden, rushing clack-clack-clack of the train zipping down the track and the muffled protest of the brake.

Angelie's book clapped shut again, a sharp, faint sound. In Tiana's arms, Grace stirred, lifting her face from her shoulder.

"Well, now," said Tiana. She flicked one of Ghaliya's braids. "Let's go say hey to your father."

They set out from the shelter of the station, out into the sunlight, Angelie marching at Tiana's side and Ghaliya hanging a half step behind, her heels scraping across the stones. Grace complained at the sudden brightness of the sun; she turned from it.

The train hummed, now idling, its black bulk blocking out a large swath of the sky. Through the windows of the nearest car they could see men stirring, women rising, coats folded neatly over arms and suitcases taken neatly in hand.

"Where's Papa?" whispered Ghaliya. She peeked around Grace, peering at the car next over. "I can't see Papa."

"Be patient," said Tiana. She smiled as Ghaliya stepped forward, then slipped back, her hand settling lightly on her mother's arm. "It's going to be another couple minutes. There's lots of people on this train, and they've all got to get off."

"What if he doesn't see us?" said Ghaliya. "What if he can't find us?"

The doors to the nearest car opened and the doors to the next car over, and the next car the other way, and slowly, the passengers emerged into the New Orlean's summer.

Ghaliya pulled on Tiana's sleeve and said, "Maybe we should look for him, Mama."

"_We_ are going to stay right here," said Tiana. She stepped neatly to the side, evading a harried businessman who swept by, his tie fluttering over his shoulder and his suitcase trailing a shirt sleeve. "Move around too much and we might just walk right on past him."

A stream of passengers from the head of the train broke around them, heading for the station and the shade it offered. Ghaliya pressed close to Tiana's side. She said, "But what if--"

Near to them, but hidden in the shifting crowd, a man said, "Well, well, what luck! So many pretty girls, all waiting for who? Or whom, I should say."

Tiana looked up, up to a tall woman in a straw hat and a red dress, who hared off to the left. Her skirt fluttered in the breeze like a magician's cloth, twisting away to reveal--

"Papa!" Angelie shrieked.

"Oh, they're waiting for me," said Naveen, and then Angelie was upon him and Ghaliya as well. Angelie's book thumped to the ground, hard upon its spine, then fell upon its face. Ghaliya clung to his arm with the bruising ferocity of a small crab.

He laughed loudly, cupping Angelie's head as she buried her face in his shoulder and wound her arms around his neck, for which he bowed his head. The sunlight caught in his hair.

The slope of his shoulders beneath his dark uniform, the breadth of his chest as he bent to embrace their eldest daughters, the strong bones in his wrist, the solid line of his jaw -- all of this so thoroughly known and yet somehow extraordinary, it was as though someone had closed their hand around Tiana's heart. His jaw was sharper, his hair shorter, the loose curls gone. His smile had not changed.

"What's this?" said Naveen, peering down at Ghaliya. "Look at all these sad faces! I haven't seen so many young ladies in tears since I married your mother."

"I'm not sad!" Ghaliya said, half-snarling, "I'm happy!" and Angelie said nothing at all. Her shoulders trembled.

Grace said, "Who's that?" She sat up and leaned out, away from Tiana, her neck craning. "Mama, who's that?"

"Who's that?" said Naveen. "Who's that! This man is your father, you little frog."

Grace shrank back; she hid her face in Tiana's shoulder, her hands pulled up over her cheeks. Tiana smiled at Naveen over the soft curve of Grace's head. Framed between Angelie and Ghaliya, the summer sun bright upon him, he smiled back at her, his eyes softening. Her heart clenched.

"She's just shy," said Tiana. In the distance a man was shouting, his voice lifting. She said, "She doesn't really remember you."

"Ah," said Naveen. His gaze lingered on Tiana's face; his hand rested light on Ghaliya's shoulders. "But I remember her. Little Gracie. Not so little now."

Tiana pressed her lips to Grace's brow and said, softly, "Come on, Gracie. Don't you want to meet your father?"

Grace hid behind her hands. She nodded, once.

Two steps: that was all left between her and Naveen. She took them, each click of her heels on the stone a crack that rolled up her spine. Naveen patted Angelie's back, then reached out to her, not to Grace, but to Tiana. His fingers slid across her cheek, the rough callouses on his hand calling up some heat low inside her. In her breast, her heart was a fist, tightened; her heart was a small fire, consuming itself.

"Tiana," he said.

She shifted Grace on her hip, and kissed him, a fluttering kiss that ended nearly as soon as it had begun. Naveen said, "What, is that it?" and her laugh caught in her throat; it cracked. She rose onto her toes and set her hand on his collar, and she kissed him again, firmly, his lips dry beneath hers, dry but there for her to kiss and touch, if she wanted. He cupped her jaw and kissed her back, with great interest. His thumb stroked down her throat. He smiled, helpless.

"Hello," he said.

Tiana pressed her nose to his cheek. He smelled of musty cloth and some unfamiliar scent, aftershave perhaps or a new cologne, and beneath that the faint, clean smell that was simply Naveen. She closed her eyes.

"Welcome home, Major," she said, as he pressed another fierce kiss on her cheek, and another below that one.

"You're squishing me," said Ghaliya.

"Oh, are you still here?" said Naveen, looking vaguely about.

"Pa-_pa_," she said, much aggrieved.

Tiana laughed, then laughed again, shaking with the joy of it, and then Naveen was laughing as well; he hid his laugh in her throat, his breath trembling warm on her skin.

"What?" said Ghaliya. "What!" and Angelie smiled at them all, her face slick and shining in the sunlight.

"Hey!" said Grace. "Why you crying, Angie?"

*

_March 11, 1952_

At the end of the day, with the coronation behind them and their obligations to the public satisfied, all that remained was Tiana and Naveen, alone with each other in their room. The long, heavy drapes which framed the balcony window shifted only little in the summer window, which rolled up from the sea and carried with it the smell of salt and the dark waters in the bay.

Naveen stood at the window, his arms crossed over his chest, his shoulders bowed. Over the bay the fireworks flashed, a thousand brilliant pinpoints of light flaring, then falling, fading. The colors caught in his hair: sharp blues succeeded by reds, greens, a cavalcade of violet. The silver at his temples flashed white.

She folded her robe and hung that on the back of a chair, then crossed the length of the room, over the elaborate, faced tiles arranged in kaleidoscopic patterns, through the shadows thrown by the city lights below, to stand beside him.

Naveen turned and smiled at her, a tired smile. He held his hand out to her and she took it, and with him now, she looked out across the city. The breeze was strong, cutting through her shift, but the night was hot and the air was humid. Naveen had rolled his sleeves up nearly to his elbows. She rested her head upon his shoulder.

Down in the city, the festivities pressed on against the hour. A month ago Maldonia had mourned the passing of one king; now she celebrated the crowning of another. Laughter rose on the breeze and song beneath that, and over it all the periodic screaming of rockets fired at the stars.

Tiana ran her fingers up and down the inside of his arm, where the skin was smooth. "Do you regret it?" she said.

He looked down at her as a rocket burst over the water, the light reflected in his eyes: a spinning shower of blue laced through with white. The light faded and his eyes were just brown.

"Abdicating, you mean," he said.

He had done it years ago, when they were still young. "Who wants to be king?" he had said in the sanctuary of their bed, the covers pulled up over their heads as if they were children playing a game. Outside the sun shone; the morning advanced. "All those responsibilities. People following you everywhere. Telling you what to do." He made a face, his tongue peeking out between his teeth.

"People looking up to you," she'd said, teasing. "Respecting you. Wanting your advice and listening to it. You're right, that sounds just awful."

"Yes, so awful. I will have none of it," he said. "I think instead I will play music with Louis and mince for you, and teach our child, or children should we be so blessed, how to enjoy life before you instill in them virtues. And I will leave all the difficult decisions vis-à-vis the Palace to you, and Maldonia to Salih, who is too young to know the disservice I do him."

"Sounds like a plan, mister," said Tiana, and they shook on it there in that sunlit room, wrapped up in the sheets and each other.

Here, now, his hair greyer, his mouth lined, the grief of his father's passing heavy upon his shoulders, Naveen looked at her and said, "No. I don't regret it. And anyway," he said reflectively, "Salih will make a much better king than I would have. He's respectable. Dignified. Completely selfless."

"You sound disappointed," she teased.

"You must never tell him."

She thought of Salih setting the crown upon his own brow, of Salih standing before the Maldonian court as the new king, and then she thought of Salih as she knew him, as a younger brother and a friend, who was grave where Naveen was not and gentle where Naveen was sharp.

"I think you're right," she said.

Naveen huffed a soft laugh at this. "I'm glad you think so highly of me."

Another rocket burst in the sky, flashing scarlet, in the shape of an opened flower. He covered her hand upon his arm with his own, his thick, graceful fingers fitting neatly between hers. In the room over, where the girls were meant to sleep, laughter rang out sudden and loud, drifting out their window and into the night. Grace's voice rose in protest, then faded.

Tiana said, "But I think if you'd had the chance, you'd have made a fair decent king."

He smiled at her. "I shall have to take your word on it. It's a shame, though," he said. He bent his head, to touch his lips to her temple. "Maldonia will never know how close she came to having such a magnificent queen."

"Maldonia will do just fine without me," she said honestly, "but the Palace won't. Not yet."

"And so Maldonia must go on without me, too," said Naveen.

Down in the streets the people rejoiced. In their room, in the dark and the small silence left to them, Tiana drew on his arm. He followed her, leaving the window and the lights above and the lights below; and when she turned to him with her hand at his breast and her face lifted to his, he bowed to her.

*

_February 19, 1965_

"I cannot believe Ghaliya is getting married," said Grace. "Getting married! And to _Roger_," she said, with the sort of intense, personal dislike most reserved for cockroaches or influenza.

"And what's wrong with Roger?" said Tiana.

Grace leaned forward over the table, displacing three bridal catalogues and a selection of ribbons. "Just look at him," she said, despairing.

Obligingly, Tiana looked to find Roger precisely where he had been for the last half hour, seated by the windowsill and staring dreamily after Ghaliya, a small notebook forgotten in his lap and his golden-brown hair finger-mussed not artfully, but absently. He'd a pen between his teeth.

"I think Mr Flohr is very charming," said Naveen. He turned a lace doily over in his hands, then frowning, discarded it. He looked over his glasses at Roger, who had taken up his pen and set to scribbling. "And very artistic. His poetry, have you read it? It's--" He paused.

"Insipid?" suggested Grace.

"Heartfelt, is what I was looking for, but thank you."

"Both of you be nice," said Tiana.

"What?" said Naveen. He picked up another doily, and a needle. "I'm being very nice. I like Roger. He's dependable. Upright. Exceedingly pleasant."

"In short, boring," said Grace.

"That, too," said Naveen.

"Well, I think Roger's sweet," Tiana told them.

"Very much so," her husband agreed. "He's reliable and boring and sweet. Perfect for Ghaliya. She brings him passion and he brings her peace. They are complementary."

He smiled at Tiana, who found herself smiling back over the crumpled doilies, the catalogues, the cloth samplers, and all the other wedding detritus strewn across the table. Grace made a noise of disgust.

"Oh, of course you wouldn't understand," she said. "You two have been married forever. You've probably forgotten what it's like being single and having fun every night."

"Your father and I have plenty of fun," said Tiana primly, but not prim enough to keep Grace from making another sound suggestive of violent illness.

"And what do you mean, married forever," said Naveen. "When I was your age--"

"You were married," said Grace witheringly and when he made to protest this, she said, "I'm twenty-four, Papa. You married Mama when you were twenty-two."

A look of realization fell upon him and with it no small shock. He set his needle down.

"You're catching flies, Mr Frog," said Tiana, gently.

He closed his mouth, but the disquiet lingered.

"Oh, shoot, she's spotted me," Grace hissed. She returned Ghaliya's wave with a half-hearted mockery of a wave, then sighed: Roger had waved as well. "Faldi faldonza," muttered Grace, but when Ghaliya called to her, she stood.

"You all right there, husband?" said Tiana in the absence of their youngest.

He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time, as if Grace had stripped away some obscuring cloth. Something like wonder washed over him.

"Has it really been so long?" he said.

She smiled at that long, familiar face: the strong nose, the wide mouth, the soft laugh lines framing his mouth and eyes. She said, "Forty years next year."

"Strange," he said. "It doesn't feel like forty years."

"Oh, oh," said Tiana. She felt a laugh bubbling up, a full-on giggle burbling in her breast. "That was very smooth."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Naveen, but he didn't seem to mind when she leaned across the table to kiss him lightly, dwelling a moment on the thin swell of his lip.

Grace came swirling back into the kitchen, saying, "Hey, Mama, Ghaliya wants to know where you put that--" She broke off.

Tiana settled back into her chair. Naveen grinned at Tiana, a little foolishly. Behind his glasses his eyes crinkled, the skin folding into well-worn lines. The laugh in her chest trembled again.

"It's bad enough Ghaliya and Roger can't stop clinging where everyone has to see them do it," said Grace. "Haven't you two been married long enough that you don't have to go around kissing each other all the time?"

"No," said Tiana, thoughtful. "It's going to take a few more years for that."

"We were only kissing, Mother," said Naveen.

Grace sniffed and said, "Well, just keep your hands to yourselves when children are present," from which agreement they abstained, with apologies.

*

_September 23, 1973_

"She won't listen to me," said Angelie. Her voice crackled briefly: static on the line. "You know Ghaliya's the only one who's ever been able to talk some sense into her, but she's still on that cruise with Roger. Have you talked to Gracie about this mess?"

Tiana sealed the lid over the potato casserole. "It's Grace's decision to make. If she wants to take the job, then she ought to do it." She lifted the phone cord so Naveen could duck beneath it, a stack of plates cradled to his chest.

"It doesn't matter if she ought to. She'd do it anyway," said Angelie, with the cynicism afforded a firstborn child. "You know Gracie. She leaps headfirst into everything."

"I'm sure she's thought it over," said Tiana mildly. Angelie snorted. "You have to admit, it's an impressive offer. The job's much better than the one she's got now. And she does like to travel."

"Maybe it pays more," said Angelie. "But you don't really want her to go off photographing soldiers killing each other."

Tiana rested her hands on the lip of the table. She looked down to her hands, to the platter where the roast sat in a small, dark pool of au juice. They'd made too much again, food enough for four, five maybe. Naveen started the tap; the water pounded like thunder into the sink. She stirred.

"Well," she said, "it's not about what I want. It's not about what you want, either. It's what Grace wants."

Angelie sighed. "I know. I know," she said. "But you hear all those stories about journalists winding up in prison and getting shot, and."

For a moment they were both silent. Tiana spread her fingers out, then brought them tight together again.

"It's all right to be worried," she said at last.

"I know," said Angelie again, quiet. A rustling, then, as of papers shuffled. "Listen, Mama, I've got to go. I need to turn this review in to the paper before six. Tell Papa I got the book he sent, and tell him I said bisous."

Tiana smiled into the phone. "I will. I love you, Angel."

"I love you, too, Mama."

At the sink, Naveen looked up, to watch her as she crossed the kitchen, phone in hand. He pulled the rubber glove on over his hand, snapped the band against his wrist. "I wanted to speak with her," he said.

Tiana hung the phone in its cradle, the cord twisting round about itself. "Should've said something sooner," she said, light.

He made a face at her, then turned back to the sink where the bubbles threatened to spill over. His head bowed; his back curved. She watched a moment as his shoulders worked, the muscles high on his back playing as he turned a plate over, scrubbing at the front.

She joined him at the sink, a towel in hand. He held the plate out and she took it from him. They worked in tandem, the water sloshing as he worked at the dishes, the towel whispering as she dragged it over this plate, then the next. An easy rhythm; familiar, too. Her arm brushed his.

The house was quiet around them, the halls empty, the rooms dark. She thought of Grace as she remembered her, small and stubborn and as liable to break a plate as clean it, and Grace as she knew her now. Her hands slowed. She stilled.

Into the quiet Naveen said, "Our petite grenouille will be all right. "

Tiana looked up at him as he looked to the sink. A grey curl had fallen across his brow. His mouth was even.

He closed his hand over the mouth of a soapy glass and swished it twice. "She's done dangerous things before," he said. He rinsed the glass out. "The shoot at the volcano last year. You remember?"

She accepted the glass. "Photographing sharks," said Tiana. She shivered, thinking of it: the unblinking eyes, the shredding teeth. How detailed Grace's photos had been, how close. "Chasing tornadoes. That thing with the tiger."

His lips thinned. "I'd forgotten the tiger."

"Awful good photos, though," she said. She set the glass aside upon the counter. "She's got one heck of an eye with a camera."

"And fortunately," said Naveen, "to the relief of all, but especially myself, she's her mother's sound judgment."

Tiana smiled down at the collection of forks he handed off to her. "Don't sell yourself too short, now. She had to get that ingenuity of hers from somewhere."

The corner of his mouth folded up. "So," he said as he reached into the sink, "as you can see, our Grace is very well prepared for her occasionally terrifying career choices, thanks to our spectacular teamwork." He pulled the plug.

She laid the forks out neatly across the counter, three large and one small. Beside her, Naveen stripped the gloves off his arms. He slapped them down over the edge of the sink with a soggy clap and turned to her. He'd splashed water down his front: his skin showed dark through the spots dotting his shirt, and a wet stripe across his gut bore testament to where he'd leaned against the counter.

Tiana folded the towel and tossed it behind the forks. She crooked her finger at him. "Get over here, old man."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" he said. He cupped his ear. "Could you say it again? A little louder, please. I didn't realize I'd need my hearing trumpet."

She laid her hands upon his chest. His heart beat steady against her palm. "I said, c'mere."

He bent to meet her. Forty-seven years of marriage and still a little zing; she curled her toes against it. Her heart ached, too full.

He touched his nose to hers and she kissed him again, slowly. His eyes crinkled; the lines thick at the corners of his mouth deepened. Lightly she touched his jaw.

"We did all right, didn't we, Mr Frog?" she said.

He inclined his head and said gravely, "So it seems, Mrs Frog."

His pulse fluttered beneath her fingers; it trembled in his throat. His hand at her waist was warm and his arm around her strong, and when she kissed him again, softly, he answered in kind. She rested on her heels.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" he said.

"Everything," she said.

"You're welcome," said Naveen. He bent to kiss her again, dryly but sweetly. "But I can't take all the credit. I had help with the dishes."

* * *

This story was originally posted at livejournal on 01/25/2010. It was written for the **30_kisses** challenge at livejournal, for the prompt "kiss."

I nicked the title from the song "Memories Are Made Of This," which was written by Terry Gilkyson, Richard Dehr, and Frank Miller in 1955. Dean Martin (backed by Gilkyson, Dehr, and Miller as The Easy Riders) made a very popular cover of this song in 1956, which you ought to be able to find without much difficulty. The lines in question are as follows: "Your lips and mine/Two sips of wine/Memories are made of this." For the record, I'd decided on three kids (all girls) for Tiana and Naveen _before_ I turned to this song. (See: "Three little kids for the flavor.")

The Panama Limited did run from Chicago to New Orleans and back again into the 1970s, but in 1937 at least it ran on a different schedule than the one I used, departing from Chicago at one in the afternoon and arriving in New Orleans at about nine in the morning. I couldn't find a schedule for 1945, but I imagine it was much the same. My apologies for the inaccuracy. For reference, the 1937 schedule I found for Panama Limited trains seven and eight was posted in the forums of Trains(dot)com ( . com / trccs / forums / p / 152847 / 1702730 . aspx ).

New Orleans Union Station was torn down in 1954 to make way for the New Orleans Union Passenger Terminal, which still stands. You can see pictures of Union Station's exterior and read a little about the Station's history at the New Orleans Public Library website ( nutrias . org / exhibits / choochoo / choochoo . htm ).

I've a few ideas for a story or two about Tiana, Naveen, and the second World War, but they'll have to wait. Fathers were generally not conscripted into service in the years preceding and of USA involvement in the war and it's likely that even had Naveen abdicated from the Maldonian throne and then naturalized as a citizen of the USA, he would have escaped the draft. If I ever get around to writing that story or two, I have an explanation for his involvement, but what it comes down to is, he volunteered. Blame Tiana's good influence. Naveen would.

I'm equally fond of the prospect of Naveen and Tiana ascending to the Maldonian throne (I'm with Naveen: Tiana would make a magnificent queen) and the prospect of Naveen abdicating. The latter worked better for this story, so that's what I went with.

Thank you again to Vitani and Rawles for your criticisms, your suggestions, and your kindnesses. They are all of them appreciated. Thank you. :)


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